a regional poet

you are the new regional poet?
fine.
i'm underwhelmed, of course.
regional poets are as common as
Labor Day farts after eating sausage grillers.
besides,
i found no manifesto in your syllabus
so there's no reason to be polite and
there's nothing to be gained by fawning over
little things, like YOU little twit.
so how'd you get here?
a friend in high places got you this
position, perhaps?
i doubt it was psychic power!
do you get the obligatory tan in the winter?
hey!  you don't need to pretend by squinting
one eye while scribbling on a table napkin
that you're a hot shit.
you're no hot shit.
can you even spell potato?
and i'll bet you're a drunk.
i'll bet you have a constant supply of unsalable
manuscripts, too.
what would any student get from your class, assuming
you have one.
a good idea?  nope.
you don't even dress the part.
i heard you once swallowed enough phenobarbital
to put you in a coma for a week.
sometimes rumors are the truth, you know.
your shoes are old.
you'll never fit in with the better members of
this faculty, which is most of us,
nor should you.
hah!  a pretender and a thief, i see.
or more like a guest come to the campus much like a swimmer to
the beach, to swim and sunbathe before being served a
lunch by a sculpture of a plastic fish.
and you're the plastic fish.
out of water.  lost.  not even interesting as you flop
and fail to impress.
you must realize that you don't speak our language!
you'll always be the stranger,
a not-very-polished outsider.
in this respect (and many more i can think of),
you are merely (hmmm...what's the term?)
a regional poet, if that.
and not published?  Hah.
you'll always be bourgeoisie!
and, MON DIEU, you actually hunt and fish?